


if i had words (to make a day for you)

by sweetestsight



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Like a lot of that, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Sexual Content, Sheep, unhealthy coping strategies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26052952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: After a life-changing accident rocks his world and costs him nearly everything, Roger travels north to escape the demons of his past on a small sheep farm. He wasn't expecting to find clarity or absolution; he certainly wasn't expecting to make three new friends, let alone fall in love.
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Brian May/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Freddie Mercury, Roger Taylor/Original Character(s) (background)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 71





	if i had words (to make a day for you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emma_and_orlando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/gifts).



> Title comes from If I Had Words, the best Saint-Saens symphony turned into a reggae hit ever to be used in a movie about a pig who wants to be a sheep dog. 
> 
> Dedicated to my dearest Amore who continually waters my crops and toasts my bread, light of my life, thank you for inspiring this mess!! This started as an inside joke and turned into a full-blown novel from forces outside anyone's control and now, here it is. 
> 
> TW: car accidents, near drownings, discussions of injuries and mild gore, child abuse, and there's one scene with vomiting. If any of those things make you uncomfortable please avoid reading this fic! Thanks <3

He doesn’t see another person for days on end.

The rain comes down almost constantly. When it isn’t raining outright the clouds hold onto it, cradling the weight of it in grey palms only to let the odd drop slip through, catching him on the crown of the head completely unawares. It reminds him of home sometimes, and that makes him extra somber and quiet—not that there’s anyone there to hear him.

He spends long days wandering the fields to forget.

Today is no different: today is just another day tripping over clods and divots, poking at the earth in front of him with his stick and eyeing the sky. When he isn’t wandering around the flock he’s letting his dogs do the work, taking the opportunity to sit anywhere he can; a stone, a stump, the odd wall. That’s when he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, and tries to clear everything from his mind.

It’s peaceful up here. People had told him as much.

People had told him that the quiet monotony slips into your bones and stays. People told him that the rain washes away any pain and darkness, traps it in mud and forces it deep into the ground where all the other sins of the past gather.

People told him he would forget.

People told him he would age gracefully, the lines on his face etching as deep as the fissures in the cliffs, but all he feels is tired. They told him he’d sleep long and hard after every day of work, but when he shuts his eyes all he sees are nightmares. They told him he’d breathe for the first time in his life. He breathes, but he does it too quickly. His breath is too shallow. 

He shakes his head gently. It’s better not to think, these days.

It’s impossible to tell when the sun is setting and when it’s gone. The grey clouds have a way of diffusing the light. Dusk comes in purple greys; sunsets pass by, cold and white; twilight is the same color, but a single shade darker.

Nonetheless the rhythm is starting to work its way into his bones, and he knows exactly when to lead the flock in for the night. He counts them as they pass him into the pasture, the dogs following on the last one’s heels. He refills their water troughs just as the light leaves the hills, and then he’s in for the night, shaking rain drops out of his thick wool jumper and lighting the iron stove in the corner. He flicks the radio on as he passes it and then pauses to tune it.

_“…rain again tomorrow, and that’s no surprise to any of ye…”_

_“…and he’s got—he’s got it—oh, what a shot! That’s yet another goal for…”_

_“…ongoing trial surround the disappearance of the leading…”_

_“…and all you hear is silence, broken by the grace of our god in heaven…”_

_“…I know she’ll always be,”_ George Harrison croons, _“the only one for me…”_

He leaves the knob there, wandering back to the leftover stew that’s bubbling on the stove. The dogs sit patiently below it, warming themselves by the heat of it and blinking at him expectantly when he stirs the lumps of meat around.

“What do you want, then?” he asks them.

Jimi, the larger one, lets out a low whine.

Roger rolls his eyes. “We all want something,” he tells him. “Sometimes we just have to settle with what we have.”

He ruins the sentiment a little by flicking a piece of beef out of the pot and onto the floor. He flicks out a second one when Jimi gets it first, leaving Joni to blink up at him with sad brown eyes.

He hasn’t been looking after the flock for very long.

They were entrusted to him by an elderly man named Walter, who had won the lottery. Entrusted is a strong word, and Roger isn’t sure how worthy of that trust he truly was—but then, he’d needed a place to stay and Walter had needed a helping hand, so it was the best arrangement either of them could hope for.

“I’ve been keeping my lady out here on this plot of land for roundabout fifty years now,” Walter had told him the first day, pausing to scowl at Roger’s flared jeans. “You know, you’ll be a hem and a half deep in mud with them on.”

“What?” Roger asked, squinting.

“What’s that accent? Where you from?”

“Cornwall.”

“Huh,” he grunted. “Aren’t any folks from there up here, now. You’ll find nothing but locals, and no club scene.”

“That’s just fine.”

“It’s not a life for a young person.”

“It’s more than alright,” Roger insisted. “I’m—I need a break from it all, anyway.”

Walter shrugged. “Well, if it suits you then I can hardly argue. Keep the flock healthy, don’t let any of them get away and don’t let the dogs get too fat. Six months, I’ll be gone. Six months to maybe a year, depending on how the funds hold up. You think you can do that?”

“Yes, sir,” Roger said.

Walter had softened at that. “See to it, then,” he said, cuffing Roger gently over the head, and Roger fought back a smile. It was nice to be treated like a son—like how a son should be treated, anyway.

He’s grown more than accustomed to the flock in the last few months, for all that he barely knew what he was doing in the beginning. He knows that Essie is getting a little old and that she has trouble chewing these days. Mattie has the softest wool, but Cara has the prettiest pelt. Maeve loves oats, for all that they make her fatter than she already is.

He knows that Lottie has a bit of a history of rejecting her lambs.

He’s fairly certain it isn’t her fault. She’d had her first one too young, and apparently it had resulted in a fair amount of resentment for all of her offspring going forward. He’d thought she’d gotten over it, or at least Walter had said as much.

It’s not the case with her youngest, a sweet ball of fuzz named Cirrus for no reason other than Roger had never named a sheep before and didn’t know quite how to start. It was the first time an ewe had birthed a lamb since he’d come to the farm, and thanks to his brief stint in medical school he’d only been slightly traumatized by it.

Apparently Cirrus and Lottie had been a little worse off.

She’d rejected him on principle, and Roger had only discovered later on that it was because there was something wrong with Cirrus’ teeth. That had led to him poring through some of the books that Walter had left behind for him, Cirrus shivering beside him on the sofa, only to learn that it was unlikely that any other ewe would accept Cirrus, either.

Which leads Roger to carrying a beer bottle full of milk around and feeding the lamb every three hours, from the first light of dawn all the way to just before his bedtime.

He doesn’t mind it, as a ritual. Cirrus is cute as anything, barely bigger than a cat and adorably pink-nosed and clumsy-footed. It’s a nice way to start his day: holding the lamb on his lap on the porch and angling the rubber nozzle on the bottle closer to his mouth, Cirrus pulling away to let out an occasional high-pitched bleat.

“I know,” Roger tells him quietly. “Life’s a real bitch, huh?”

“Baa!”

He’s interrupted by the milk truck rattling down the driveway, coming to a stop in the dirt in front of the steps. Roger watches it patiently. He doesn’t often see the milk man, let alone talk to him, but the old man usually leaves him alone, anyway.

The man who appears from the truck is decidedly not the person he was expecting.

Roger blinks as what he can only describe as a beanpole of a man hops out of the driver’s seat and into the dirt, carrying two bottles of milk with him. He pauses when he sees Roger on the step.

“Hello,” he calls uncertainly. “We haven’t met. I’m Brian.”

“Are you new?” Roger asks him, holding Cirrus closer.

“I’m temporary,” Brian says hesitantly. “The, uh. You know McIntyre? He came down with something. I’m just filling in for him for the day. I manage the old lighthouse at night.”

“Over on, ah…”

“Emerson.”

“You live there?”

Brian nods.

“Does it ever get lonely?”

“Does it ever get lonely out here?” Brian counters.

Roger frowns at him. “I get by.”

Brian doesn’t answer. He sets the milk down beside the front door, pausing to look at Cirrus for a moment. “You’re not supposed to bottle feed them unless you know they’ll survive,” he says.

Roger holds Cirrus closer protectively. “He’ll be just fine,” he says coldly.

Brian licks his lips and nods once. He climbs down the steps and hops back into his truck. “It’s been a pleasure,” he says, his tone bland enough to suggest that really it’s been anything but, and then his engine chokes as he continues off down the road.

Roger rolls his eyes, stroking a hand over Cirrus’ fuzzy shoulders. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he tells him conversationally.

Cirrus bleats right in his face.

The afternoon goes by slowly. It rains again.

Distantly he thinks that the sheep’s pelts are getting a little long. He was there the last time they were sheared, Walter pressing the shears into his hands and showing him how it was done. Again, he was only mildly traumatized by it.

He really wasn’t made for this kind of lifestyle.

It can hardly be helped. He can’t go back to the city—not when every time he closes his eyes he sees the same images over and over. He can’t go back to Cornwall when just the sight of the road into his old town makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. He wouldn’t last another week in his father’s house. He simply can’t do it.

This is better, for him. This is the better alternative.

Nightmares wake him, not for the first time.

He sees a hill and a turn. He feels his body moving with the gentle force of the car. Up, up, up, then down, then around, and then his entire brain shudders _hard._

He sees asphalt and broken glass.

“It happens,” a voice whispers. “It’s not your fault, so don’t let them tell you that it is. It’s _not your fault_ , Roger, swear to Christ. Please _._ Please just fucking listen to me.”

“Who’s fault could it be?” he murmurs back. “I did this. I did this to you.”

_Roger._

There was water in his lungs and he couldn’t cough it out. He couldn’t breathe past it. Every time he tried he just sank deeper and deeper.

_Not a scratch, huh? With a crash like that you were lucky._

“Is that what he told you?” someone hisses. “That it wasn’t on you? Huh? You think that matters?”

_What happened to your ribs, love?_

“You need to leave,” Clair whispered into the darkness between them, her pillow wet with tears.

_That’s old._

There’s asphalt beneath his cheek. There’s broken glass in his palms and every time he breathes his ribs ache.

He wakes up to the dogs whining quietly. Jimi has blatantly disregarded Roger’s barely-imposed rules, his front paws propped up on the mattress as he stares at Roger with his head cocked. He whines again, deep in his throat, and Roger feels his eyes well up.

“Come on, then,” he whispers.

Jimi hops up onto the bed without a second thought. Joni is a little slower, hesitating at the edge of the bed and whining high in her throat. He pats the mattress lazily and she jumps up finally, sending the springs creaking as she settles against his side.

He curls into them, his nose pressed into Jimi’s shoulder, and tries not to breathe in the smell of dirty fur. Joni huffs impatiently and licks his arm once before stilling.

If he lets a few tears slip into the soft fur of Jimi’s shoulder, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

The rain comes down the next morning.

He isn’t looking forward to taking the flock out in this weather. Part of him doesn’t even want to, especially when he sees a few of the ewes back up nervously from the door of the barn, their lambs hiding beneath their fluffy bodies.

He purses his lips as he watches it fall against the windowsill, splattering against the old, weather-worn wood. The dogs watch him expectantly, waiting patiently for their breakfast.

“What do you think of that, then?” he asks them.

It’s practically a downpour, a far cry from the gentle mists and sprinklings he’s used to. Joni’s whine just confirms that.

Or maybe she’s just hungry. He doesn’t know.

He sighs as he pulls some chicken out of the fridge, breaking it into smaller pieces and dumping it into their food bowls. Walter had told him they’re used to a diet of fresh meat and potatoes of all things, with the occasional rice or cheese thrown in. He’s pretty sure Walter used to give them Guinness, too, but at this point he’s beyond questioning it.

He doesn’t drink anymore.

The rain only falls more heavily as the day goes on, the clouds dark and heavy above him where they hang in the sky. He wonders distantly if this means they’ll see clear sky within the next few days, or if it’s just a sudden torrent to punctuate the perpetual rainfall. It’s entirely possible that no sunny sky is coming after it.

He leaves the house in mid-morning to go check on the herd, and then finds that he doesn’t want to leave the shelter of the barn once he’s there. The bales of hay are soft and dry, the herd is noisy and restless and providing a soothing sort of white noise, and Cirrus is more than happy to run around the other sheep for a while. Roger runs to the house only to retrieve a blanket, a tin mug of tea and his battered copy of Kerouac before settling again.

He doesn’t move as the dogs settle around him, the sheep wandering to and fro and occasionally coming up to butt him in the head. He grabs Cirrus’ bottle when the lamb trots up and bleats directly in his face, pausing in his reading to feed him.

Other than that he doesn’t shift until his stomach is rumbling and the sky is darkening even further. He can’t tell if it’s because of impending dusk or a worsening of rain, but either way he takes it as his cue to head inside. Maybe the rain will let up tomorrow and they’ll be able to take advantage of the good weather.

That hope is immediately ruined the next day, and then the day after that.

_“…storms in the area, and you know they tend to last when they roll in, now. The good weather is only a blessing so long as we’re blessed.”_

He changes the channel, scrolling the little wooden dial.

_“Now that’s the best performance I’ve seen in…”_

_“…buy anywhere else? We have the best deals, the best sales, and you already know…”_

_“…Conservative party…”_

_“…in Truro three months ago. There are no signs of the remaining witness, and the families of the deceased insist—”_

His hand shakes as he twists the knob harshly. Something in the radio twangs, the speakers going dead.

“Shit,” he mutters. He twists the knob the other way, but nothing happens. “Shit!”

From the pile of blankets in the corner, Cirrus bleats loudly.

“Yeah, I know,” Roger mutters, huffing. “Give me a minute.”

“Baa!”

He makes to kick the radio stand before he catches himself suddenly. No more anger. Someone could get hurt.

No more.

He presses his palms against his eyelids and takes three long breaths, his pulse slowing. He lets go of the radio and breathes through the urge to hurl the thing at the wall.

Cirrus is watching him with blank yellow eyes. There’s nothing quite like being judged by a sheep. Something about the horizontal pupils lends an indescribable sort of distain to the entire experience.

He huffs as he goes to retrieve Cirrus’ bottle, settling on the sofa to feed him. It isn’t a long process but it always takes a little time, and the repetitiveness of it is somehow calming. The bottle is three quarters of the way empty when a thunderclap startles him.

Joni’s ears perk up. Jimi immediately shoves his own tail between his legs and cowers under the couch, whimpering all the while. Cirrus, to his credit, continues to drink.

Roger rolls his eyes. “Great,” he tells Joni.

Thunder is just what they don’t need. With the mud-studded fields out here, a hard rain turns the entire area into a virtual quagmire.

They might as well hunker down. Between the lack of a radio, the fact that he’s running out of books and the dirt roads being virtually impossible to traverse in the rain, he isn’t looking forward to it.

He’s woken by a knock on the door.

His eyes snap open. He can hardly be grateful for being startled out of his most recent nightmare. There are no such things as strangers out here. He knows all his neighbors, and they leave him well enough alone. Nobody who knows him comes knocking on his door.

There are plenty of people wondering where he is, and none of them are friendly.

Someone knocks again. Joni immediately jumps down from the bed and begins barking, running down the stairs and toward the door. He pulls on his jeans before following warily.

The person knocks a third time just as he’s reaching the landing, but whoever it is, they’re invisible through the frosted glass.

“Who’s there?” Roger calls, his voice still rough from sleep. Joni growls.

“Please,” a voice calls. “We need help.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me and my friend. We were trying to drive to Edinburgh, but the car’s gotten stuck in the mud.”

Roger pauses for a long moment. He doesn’t think he recognizes the voice, but the posh accent isn’t local. He can never be too careful.

“Please,” the man says again. “Will you at least direct us to the nearest inn?”

Roger snorts at that. “There isn’t an inn for hours, mate.”

“We’ll sleep in the barn, then. We don’t care.”

“Where are you from?” Roger asks him.

The man hesitates. “Uh, India. Tanzania before that. I—”

“I mean in England.”

“Oh. Middlesex.”

“Your friend?”

“Oadby. We study in London.”

“What school?”

The man hesitates. “What?”

“Where do you study?”

“…Ealing and Chelsea College.”

Nobody he knows, then. It’s unlikely that they know him. He opens the door.

A very confused man is standing on his doorstep, covered in mud from the knees down and rainwater from everything above that. His black hair is matted and dripping against his face, and he’s shivering harshly. Just behind him is a brunet, slightly taller but somehow smaller-looking despite it. He appears to be no warmer than the man beside him.

He looks them both over carefully, but he doesn’t recognize either of them.

“Come inside, then,” he tells them, already wincing at the sight of their muddy boots against the worn hardwood floor. “You should know better than to travel in the rain in a place like this.”

“How would we have known that?”

Roger shakes his head. “Roads up here turn to pure mud in the rain. Everybody knows that.”

“Not us,” the first man says loftily.

Roger shakes his head again, turning to the stove. “Do you want tea?”

“Please,” the second man says, wincing as his messy brown hair sticks to his neck.

“Towels?”

“That would be great. I’m sorry we’ve been so rude,” he adds, elbowing his companion lightly in the ribs. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves. I’m John, and this is Freddie. Thank you for letting us in.”

“Roger,” he tells them gruffly. “The pleasure’s mine.”

“You look familiar,” Freddie says slowly. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I’ve just got one of those faces,” he says, his heart skipping a beat.

“Did you study in London?”

“Only for a short time. I was in medical school.”

“We definitely didn’t meet, then,” Freddie says with a laugh.

“Mmh.” He throws a couple of towels at them from the bin of clean laundry next to the stove. “Go ahead and dry off. I don’t know if I have a lot of spare clothes for you all, but you can try anything from that basket. You look like you’re around my size.”

“We can’t thank you enough for this,” John tells him quickly. “If there’s anything we can do—”

“Don’t thank me too quickly,” Roger says. “The sheep wake up at six, I’m up not long after and the sofa is horribly uncomfortable. I can’t promise you a great night’s rest.”

“Better than being stuck out in the rain,” John insists.

He’s earnest when he says it, and Roger can tell. He wants to trust him by the raw honesty in his eyes, the pink flush rushing back to his cheeks as he warms back up, the way that Freddie is nodding silently next to him—he’d like to trust them.

He’d like to trust anyone, but he can’t. He can’t ask them to trust him back.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he says, and Joni follows him as he goes. “If you need anything just call me.”

He leaves them behind to blink after him.

Asphalt—tiny fissures between the individual bits of stone. Glass glittering in the cracks.

Scabs crack the same way. He knows them. He watches them crack in the mirror all the time.

_Don’t pick it. It won’t scar unless you pick it._

That’s wishful thinking.

His sister had eyes the color of grass in summer.

_“There are many here among us, who think that life is but a joke.”_

The roar of an engine sounds in the distance, louder and louder and louder.

“We’ll just get out of here, then,” Jay tells him. “You and me.”

“And the rest.”

“And the rest.” A laugh. “You couldn’t leave Luke behind if you tried, you know. He loves you.”

_“But you and I, we’ve been through that, and this is not our fate.”_

The engine gets louder and louder.

There’s glass in the pavement.

He wakes up with a harsh breath to see the hard blue slate of the clouds outside, the telltale sign of the coming of morning. Joni whines at him.

“Where’s your brother?” he asks her.

She cocks her head.

He huffs and gets dressed quickly, trotting down the stairs only to find Jimi already waiting for the two of them, watching their guests with a cocked head. Roger can’t blame him—not really. He almost wants to pause and watch them himself: the way they’re curled practically on top of each other on the sofa, Freddie’s arm thrown over John’s hip to keep him from rolling off and onto the floor. One of Roger’s old pairs of joggers is showing off the curve of the backs of John’s thighs.

He blinks and looks away quickly.

Distantly, he wonders if they’re together. It’s possible they’re just close friends who are used to couch surfing and sleeping in close quarters. With the way their bodies are practically molded together, Roger wouldn’t be surprised if they were something more.

Freddie stirs as he puts the coffee on and sets to work on boiling his morning porridge. He made enough for his guests, unsure if they would want it but not willing to let them go hungry, and it pays off when a moment later he sees Freddie eye the pot hungrily.

“Breakfast?” he asks.

“Let me remove my limpet first,” Freddie says, nudging John hard between the ribs.

John grunts in protest, shifting unhappily.

Roger finds that he has to pry his eyes away again. He wishes he had some sort of distraction. Without the radio his life is beginning to take a rather miserable turn. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he has to go another week without music.

As if sensing Roger’s thoughts, Cirrus chooses that moment to screech loudly from his little bed in the corner.

John’s eyes snap open. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, wide awake.

“A lamb,” Roger says, stirring his porridge.

John blinks at him, looking around as if only just remembering where he is. “Why is there a lamb in the house?” he asks.

“Because his mother hates him,” Roger tells him distractedly. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Uh,” John says. “Sure.”

Roger doles it out into mugs, and then doles the porridge out into bowls, and then patiently waits while his guests look around as if still trying to remember where exactly they are. When they settle at the table it’s to silence—comfortable on Roger’s part, though probably slightly less so for his guests.

“Rain hasn’t let up, huh?” Freddie says finally.

“No,” Roger says. He shovels some porridge into his mouth.

John clears his throat. “Thank you again for your hospitality. If you’d point us to the nearest inn we can leave you alone. We’ll be out of your hair—”

“It’s no trouble,” Roger says quickly. “You won’t be able to get to an inn. Not in this weather. Besides, even if you could you probably would have to walk for hours to get back to your car once the weather clears.”

“We can’t just abuse your hospitality,” John says. “It’s not right. We can walk back to the car if we have to.”

“You won’t be able to get through the roads,” Roger says, his patience wearing thin. “You got stranded once already. The storm should be gone in a few days. You can stay here until then.”

John looks like he’s about to have a coronary, and a prickle of unease settles at the back of Roger’s throat. Could it be possible that they were lying last night? That John knows who he is after all? Is it possible that he doesn’t want to stay because he knows what Roger’s done?

Freddie breaks him out of his reverie. “Darling,” he says, “at least let us pay you back. Let us help out around here.”

“No offense, but herding isn’t exactly easy,” Roger says patiently. “I’m from the city, same as you, but it took me a while to pick it up. Besides, I don’t want you to end up more muddy and exhausted than you already are.”

“Your radio,” John says quickly, pointing at the battered wooden box in the corner. “It’s broken, isn’t it? I’ll fix it for you.”

Roger blinks at him. “You’ll—”

“I’m an engineering student. I can do it,” John nods. “And Freddie works with clothes. If you have laundry or any patches you need done or anything like that—”

“I’d love to help,” Freddie says eagerly. “Yes, I’d love to. I’d be happy to do that for you.”

He purses his lips. It’s true that he has more than his share of laundry to do, and he never seems to find the time. It’s the same story for the handful of missing buttons and torn sleeves in the corner of his wardrobe upstairs. Still… “I can’t possibly ask that of you two.”

“And we can’t ask you to let us stay with you for days on end without doing something to thank you,” Freddie replies. “Please. Let us pay you back.”

Roger sighs and stirs his porridge thoughtfully. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Okay, then.”

It’s nice to have them around.

Between his rounds in the barn and his general upkeep on the farm he has more than enough to keep him busy, but it’s comforting to have the company. When he comes inside to grab a cup of tea or a piece of bread it’s to see John hunched over bits and pieces of hardware at the table, an old soldering iron Roger had discovered in the attic held elegantly in his long fingers, the metal tip sending a thin wisp of smoke toward the ceiling while John mutters to himself. Freddie is singing in the laundry room, hidden from view but present all the same.

He didn’t realize how much he missed being around other people.

John catches sight of him feeding Cirrus around three in the afternoon, asks what he’s doing and immediately wants to try. When Roger finally comes in for dinner it’s to the sight of John cradling the tiny lamb in one arm and holding the bottle toward his mouth with his other hand, talking quietly to the him all the while. It sends a wave of something Roger doesn’t want to think about through his chest.

“You can have my bed tonight,” Roger tells them over dinner. “It makes more sense than having the two of you cram together on the sofa.”

The radio is working once more, an old Kenny Richards song playing quietly from the corner, and Roger is grateful for the background noise to fill the awkward pauses. It gives him something to listen to when Freddie pauses, placing his fork down pointedly.

“You really don’t have to do that,” he says softly. “Me and John slept on the sofa last night. We can do it again.”

“I was rude to put you there,” Roger counters. “I didn’t think it through. The sofa is fine for one, but not for two. Take my bed.”

“We can’t kick you out of your own bed,” John says.

“Please,” Roger tells them pointedly. “Besides, the two of you practically got more done around here today than I did. You need a good night’s rest.”

His companions don’t say anything at that, but Roger makes sure to be ready for bed before them and to lay down on the sofa before either of them can make it there.

Freddie gives him a frustrated look when he finds him. “Darling…”

“There are extra blankets in the trunk at the foot of the bed if you need them,” Roger tells him.

Freddie huffs and walks up the stairs, leaving him alone. Roger leans over and extinguishes the lamp. The room is flooded with darkness all at once, and it feels a little like someone has covered his eyes with their hand—like they’re protecting him from seeing what he shouldn’t.

The ground always stops right before his face hits it—no, his vision simply cuts out. He doesn’t make contact with the ground. It’s rushing up and up and up, and then when he’s still an arm’s length away it just disappears into blackness all at once. It never gets any closer than that.

_“You think that’ll help the fucking—”_

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess,” Roger says quickly to drown it out. “And she had—”

“Did she marry a prince?” Clare asks him. “Boys have cooties.”

“No, she didn’t marry a prince. She didn’t marry at all. She didn’t need to, because she had everything she could ever want. She had a beautiful horse—the fastest horse in the land—and it would take her wherever she wanted to go.”

_“Stop it! Just stop it!”_

_“Where the fuck is he? Get out of my—!”_

_“Let go! You’re hurting me!”_

“And all her subjects loved her so, so much. She was so happy. Every single day, she woke up happy.”

“Roger,” Clare interrupts quickly, “I know what you’re doing. It’s okay. I know you have to go.”

Closer and closer and closer, and then the ground just disappears and he’s falling.

“You don’t deserve it,” a voice gritted out. “You _bastard._ You took my daughter from me. Do you hear me? My only kid.”

“I’m sorry,” he panted. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Does that make it better?”

“No. Of course it doesn’t.”

“ _You can’t make up for what you did.”_

“I’d do anything—”

“Too bad. You can’t. I wish you’d have died instead.”

He shut his eyes. “I wish I had, too,” he whispers.

_I wish I had wish I had I wish I had wished I had—_

A clap of thunder is what wakes him, but the sight of a figure in the darkness has his eyes jerking wide open, his breath catching in his chest.

“Relax,” Freddie whispers, stepping closer, and the faint light from the window catches in his wide eyes. “It’s just me. You were having a nightmare.”

He lets out a long breath. He knows that by now. That’s not news to him. “Is John awake?”

Freddie shakes his head, crouching down slowly beside the sofa. “He sleeps like the dead. Always has.”

He takes a deep breath and then lets it out again. Across the room he can see Jimi hiding from the thunder beneath one of the arm chairs, regarding him with scared eyes from the darkness.

“You were screaming,” Freddie whispers. “You were talking to someone.”

The clock is ticking steadily against the wall. Roger squints up at it. He can’t see well in the darkness without his glasses, but he thinks it must be around three in the morning.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head.

“Sometimes talking about it is the only way to get rid of a nightmare for good. My mom used to say that.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says firmly. “I—it would do me no good, alright? I can’t.”

Freddie doesn’t say anything at that, just lets out a hum under his breath. He reaches out hesitantly, his hand coming to rest on Roger’s back, and when Roger doesn’t move to shake him off he starts rubbing soothing circles into the space between his shoulder blades through his t-shirt. Roger sighs, tingles immediately spreading across his scalp.

He forgot how long it’s been since another person has touched him kindly,

His eyes drift shut. He has no idea how long Freddie keeps it up. He has no idea, because within two minutes he’s drifting back off to sleep. This time he doesn’t dream.

“You have a ham radio,” John tells him over breakfast.

Roger blinks. “What?”

John is pink-cheeked, practically vibrating with excitement. “The thing that—you know the table beside your bed?”

“The junky wooden thing with the dials and the rust spots?”

“Yeah. It’s a ham radio.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Roger says distantly.

“It’s for short-range communication,” John says. “Well—not that short range. You can talk to anyone who has one as long as they’re close enough. All sorts of people pass through here. I’m sure you could pick up some interesting signals.”

“I…what?”

“Let me fix it,” John says eagerly. “Please.”

It’s not like they have anything better to do today. “Alright,” Roger says slowly. “Yeah. It’s broken, anyway. It’s not like you could make it much worse.”

John lets out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a hum before shoving a spoonful of porridge into his mouth as if trying to hide it. Freddie smiles from behind his hand and raises his eyebrows at Roger, feigning exasperation.

Roger just shakes his head and goes to retrieve Cirrus’ bottle.

“ _Stars fading but I linger on, dear_ ,” Freddie sings. He has a good voice, the sound of it mingling pleasantly with Ella Fitzgerald on the radio.

It’s nearly dinnertime. Freddie is stirring some sort of soup that John’s had simmering away all day. John is at the table again, this time with a different radio in front of him. He pulls his soldering iron away from the interior, blows at the smoke trailing off it and sets it down into the stand by his elbow as he examines his work.

“You have a lovely singing voice,” Roger tells Freddie as he sidles up beside him, nudging him out of the way of the sink so that he can pour himself some water.

Freddie starts. “Thank you dear,” he says with a gentle smile. “I do sometimes, anyway.”

“He’s being modest,” John calls from the table.

“You’re a flatterer.”

“I’m in a band with you for a reason, you know.”

“You’re in a band?” Roger asks.

Freddie nods, rolling his eyes. “If you can call it that. I think it’s really more of an ensemble than anything. We’ve got practically 18 people now.”

Roger snorts. “And to think I thought my band of eight was bad…”

“You play?”

“Drums,” Roger says quietly. “I used to.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“I haven’t got a kit up here, do I?” he points out.

“And what does a charming, fashionable young drummer like yourself do to get himself stuck in a place like this?” Freddie asks him slyly.

Roger flicks the tap off and raises his glass to his lips pointedly.

“Leave him be, Fred,” John says, so quietly it’s practically unintelligible.

“I’m just curious,” Freddie says quickly. “Of course I’m—I don’t mean to pry. I would never.”

Roger drains the last of his water. “It’s alright,” he says. “If you must know, I wanted a break from it all. Walter—the man who owns the farm—he’d come into a bit of money and was planning on going on a long vacation. He needed someone to watch the place.”

Freddie nods unquestioningly, his face carefully blank and sympathetic. “That’s perfectly reasonable. It’s nice of you to step up to help someone like that. I can’t imagine it’s very exciting around here.”

Cirrus trots into the kitchen and screeches loudly. John jumps in his chair a little and cusses under his breath.

“It’s fine,” Roger says, deadpan, and Freddie snorts out a laugh.

The rain stops around eight. John stops around ten.

“It’s done,” he announces. “I’m done.”

“You’re done?” Roger asks him from the sofa. He’s on his third reread of Kerouac, now.

“Mhmm. It’s all working.” His eyes are bright, and all that Roger can really think is that he’s _adorable._

“Well let’s try it out, then!” Freddie says. “What are you waiting for?”

John laughs and flicks it on, turning the dial between frequencies, the receiver clutched in his other hand.

_“…lot drier up here if that helps,”_ a man says.

_“Well, I don’t know if it does, seeing as we’re trying to tow a fucking concrete silo, Matthew.”_

_“That’s not really my problem.”_

John snorts out a laugh, giddy.

Freddie elbows him. “Say something.”

John raises the mic to his lips. “Matthew, don’t be such a silo in the mud,” he says in a poorly done New York drawl.

_“Listen, mind your business,”_ Matthew says grumpily, and Freddie cackles.

John grins as he twists the dial again, looking for a new frequency.

_“…and they never pick up,”_ a woman is saying. _“I call them four, five times a week. I spent so long—and you know, I know they’re not eating enough. If they don’t want to talk then that’s fine, but I just want to give them some new recipes and make sure they’re healthy and—and remind them that I love them, and I’m proud.”_

_“Same with mine,”_ another woman replies. _“Hell. I miss them. I do.”_

Roger swallows hard. John blinks rapidly and changes the channel.

_“…knots,”_ a gentle voice says. _“Five-thirty at three degrees, you’re eight nautical miles out. This is Emerson Light. Please respond. Over.”_

The mic crackles. _“Emerson, this is trawler Princess Beauty. Rough night out here. Swells are about two meters or so, and a little higher in the bay. Wind is at around thirty past the point. I hope you’ve got someone to keep you company on a night like this. We’re freezing our balls off. Over.”_

_“Emerson to Princess. That’s a, uh. That’s a negative on that. Thank you for the updates. Over.”_

Roger snorts. “What is this?”

“Light house, from the sounds of it,” John says. “They have radios sometimes to communicate with ships or fishermen. It sounds like—”

_“Princess to Emerson,”_ the fisherman continues, _“if you’d want to change that we’re docking tomorrow. Got a good haul for the time of year. Over.”_

_“Emerson to Princess. I can hardly be good company, considering I’m practically nocturnal. It comes with the job. Over.”_

“Is he—” John starts.

“Yeah,” Freddie nods with a grin. “Yeah, I think he is.”

_“Princess to Emerson. I wouldn’t want to do much sleeping with you anyway, if you get my drift. Over.”_

“There it is,” Roger laughs.

_“Emerson to Princess. Unfortunately I’m happy with my bed not smelling like decaying fish and old sweat, thank you. Please update coordinates. Over.”_

“Damn,” Freddie cackles.

_“Princess to Emerson. Thirty degrees south of you, sixty degrees past humiliated. Over.”_

_“Emerson to Princess. I can’t fault you for shooting your shot,”_ the voice says dryly. _“Over.”_

_“Princess to Emerson. Waiting patiently for the day you decide you let me push my longboat into your lagoon. Over.”_

_“Don’t hold your breath, Princess,”_ the lighthouse operator snorts. _“This is Emerson Lighthouse. Current temperature is four point two degrees Celsius. Wind is north by northwest, clocking in at eighteen knots. Swells are currently at one point six metres.”_

His voice rattles on and on, soothing and even as he reads out weather stats and navigational angles.

“Huh,” Freddie says. “I don’t suppose you know where that lighthouse is, do you?”

Roger shakes his head. “A ways north,” he says. “Walter pointed it out on a map to me. I’ve never been.”

“Too far to walk?”

“Certainly. Besides, I’m always busy. I think I met the guy who runs it once.”

“Is he as lovely as he sounds?” Freddie asks teasingly.

“A bit of a prick, actually,” Roger hums. “His name’s Brian, and he’s a frigid piece of work. It’s for the better that I don’t see much of him.”

“Why?” John asks with a smirk. “What’d he do?”

“He was just rude. He told me I shouldn’t nurse Cirrus if I wasn’t sure he was going to survive.”

“Maybe he didn’t mean it like that,” Freddie says softly.

John snorts, clicking the button on the mic. “AE7SD,” he says.

_“AE7SD, this is KD7FYX,”_ Brian replies. _“What are your coordinates?”_

“Staying on a farm down south with a hot blonde,” John says flatly, ignoring the smack Freddie lands on his shoulder. “He wanted you to know that the lamb is growing up strong and healthy.”

“John,” Roger groans.

There’s a long pause. _“Well,”_ Brian says finally, _“you can tell him that that’s good to hear. I can only hope to come across more shepherds who are as patient and kind to every animal in their care. It’s to his credit, and at the detriment of mine for having doubted him. I’m not the best with first impressions, and that’s on me.”_

“Aw,” Freddie says softly.

John turns to look at Roger. “Apology accepted?”

“It was pretty good,” Roger allows with a grimace. “It’s…yeah, I guess that’ll do.”

John clicks the button. “He says he’ll accept that, but you’re on thin fucking ice.”

Brian laughs. _“Tell him he’s a good man.”_

_“Princess to Emerson,”_ the fisherman pipes up. _“Getting a little jealous out here.”_

_“Pipe down, Princess.”_

Freddie snorts. “Lovely, indeed.”

Roger shakes his head gently, but he can’t quite keep the smile off his face.

He and Freddie do the dishes side-by-side, John lingering in the kitchen to joke and laugh along with them, and when Roger finally curls up on the couch for the night it’s with a smile on his face. It’s for that reason that he expects his nightmares to leave him alone.

They don’t.

He barely makes it to the bathroom through the darkness. He heaves into the toilet, his throat burning as his stomach rebels against him.

“Roger?” John calls uncertainly through the door.

He wheezes, his stomach rolling. “Go back to bed, John,” he calls, and then ruins it a little by retching again.

“Do you need water? Anything?”

“I need to be left alone!” he snaps.

His stomach hurts, but he knows he has nothing left to throw up. He flushes the toilet and leans back against the wall, the heels of his palms pressing against his eyelids.

It hardly helps. All he can do is see it again and again: shattered glass, smears of black, a horribly mangled body in the distance, a sob coming from behind him—

He gasps for air as his chest clenches. He needs to get out of this house.

He stands quickly, jerking the door open only to see John waiting in the shadows of the hallway, wide-eyed.

“Rog—”

“I said I’m fine,” Roger snaps, all but running down the stairs and opening the front door.

“Roger!”

He doesn’t listen. He slams it behind himself and runs out into the night.

The mud is squishy and thick between his bare toes, but he can hardly find it in himself to care. He all but runs to the barn and slips in through the side door, groping in the darkness for the light switch.

He’s greeted by a few irritated bleats. Somehow that’s what helps him breathe.

_Tell someone about it._ That’s what Freddie had told him. The nightmares will stop if he tells someone about them.

He collapses beside one of the pens. It’s Cara who greets him, her grey face poking through the slats, and then Maeve follows. Esther cranes her neck out below them to lick at his hand.

He takes a deep breath and then lets it out again. Cara watches him with pale hazel eyes.

“I did something bad,” he whispers.

The sheep are predictably silent. He feels scared to make even a single sound, but all of a sudden he can’t stop.

“I messed up,” he breathes. “I didn’t think, and I did something terrible.”

Esther licks at his hand again and huffs. He reaches through the slats to pet at her wool and she blinks at him slowly as his eyes well up.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he chokes out. “I don’t want to. I don’t deserve to. There’s not a single thing I can do to make it better, and I don’t deserve to move forward. I wish I could forget but I think I deserve to—to think about it. To suffer for it. It’s the only penance I can give.”

Cara bleats softly, butting her head against Esther in a bid to get pets. He reaches toward her, burying his hand in the curly wool of her pelt.

“I killed four people,” Roger whispers to them around a sob. “My four best friends. I killed them.”

The sheep blink at him expectantly.

He can’t breathe around the lump in his throat. He shudders around it, drawing in a ragged breath before letting it out shakily, a strangled sound coming with it. He leans forward until his forehead rests against the rail of the pen, and for the first time in months he allows himself to cry about it.

Cara lets out a huff, and seconds later he feels warm fur nudge against his cheek. He reaches through the slats until he finds her pelt and grounds himself in the feeling of it. He has no idea how long he sits there, but by the time his sobs subside his chest aches from the strain and his eyes feel swollen and gritty.

Cara licks at his cheek with a warm, wet tongue.

He yelps in surprise, sitting up quickly and wiping at his face.

“Baa.”

“Ew, Cara,” he huffs, his voice scratchy.

“Baa!”

Esther butts her head against the back of his hand until he rests his palm between her ears.

“You guys are like a bunch of dogs, you know that?” he huffs at them.

Cara just licks at his fingers again, searching for traces of salty tears. He sighs as he lets his eyes drift shut, taking a deep breath. He holds it until his lungs burn and then lets it out again, and when he opens his eyes he feels slightly more grounded.

He turns until his back is resting against the pen. A moment later Cara lays down, her chin resting on the lowest slat of the gate, her nose still pressed against his hand. He takes another deep breath and lets it out again, his eyes drifting closed. Around him the herd shuffles, soft hooves scraping against hay and lambs bleating quietly to their mothers.

He hated the smell of the barn when he first arrived on the farm, but now the woody scent of hay soothes him. He focuses on the rhythm of his own breathing and the sounds around him until his brain is lulled finally into slumber.

“Roger,” someone whispers.

His eyes drift open. On the other side of the pen, Cara and Esther stir.

“Rog?”

It’s Freddie; his silhouette is framed against the door to the barn, and if Roger squints he can make out the confused expression on his face.

“Here,” he calls, just to save him a possible heart attack when he sees Roger laying there against the straw.

Freddie jumps anyway. “You scared me,” he says, walking neatly across the straw until he can crouch at Roger’s side. “Have you been here all night?” he asks with a frown.

Roger shrugs. “Slept better out here, I guess.”

Freddie’s frown deepens. “Nightmares?”

“Leave it,” Roger murmurs halfheartedly.

“You look better.” He reaches out to brush a finger across Roger’s jaw, angling his head toward the light. “You got some rest, then?”

“Yeah,” Roger says. He sits up straighter, twisting his back until it pops a few times. Despite how stiff he is from the odd sleeping position, he hasn’t felt quite as good in…months, maybe. He isn’t sure. “Yeah, I feel good.”

“Excellent,” Freddie replies, his smile soft and genuine, and Roger can’t help but think that he must really mean it. He holds his hands out to Roger; Roger takes them, and Freddie pulls him to his feet. “Up and at ‘em, now,” he says. “Someone’s been looking for you.”

“Three guesses who,” Roger says, and Freddie snorts.

He’s not disappointed when he enters the house. The first thing Cirrus does when he sees him is let out an ear-grating bleat and trot toward the door at a breakneck pace, his little hooves skidding on the hardwood.

“That’s a dog, not a lamb,” John says, poking at some eggs on the stove.

“You’re telling me. Morning, John.”

“Morning. You’ve got straw in your hair. Did you know?”

“Put it there myself.”

“Mmh. Eggs?”

“Please.”

They settle at the table in companionable silence, John doling out eggs and Freddie sipping at his coffee. John’s eyes flit to Roger’s face and then back every few seconds like he can’t stop doing it.

“What?” Roger asks him finally.

John shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says quickly, and then fidgets with his fork for a long moment. “I’m sorry about last night,” he murmurs finally. “Sorry I pushed you.”

Roger shrugs. “Is that all? It’s fine.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Well, I forgive you anyway.”

John shoves a piece of toast into his mouth.

Freddie just raises his eyebrows at his friend, his mouth pressed into a skeptical line, before setting his mug down on the table pointedly. “Rain stopped,” he says, a little unnecessarily.

John swallows his toast with a gulp. “Suppose it has,” he replies.

“Well, we can finally be getting out of your hair, then, Roger. I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to have your space back.”

Roger puts his fork down. “You can’t go,” he says quickly, wide-eyed.

John blinks. “What?”

“I mean, you…” he trails off. He doesn’t know how to tell them that his own solitude was driving him insane; that he needs people—needs _someone_ before he loses it entirely. He needs them, even if he can’t quite say why. “The roads,” he says quickly. “They take a few days to dry out.” At least that much is true.

Freddie stares at him. “The roads.”

“Yes. The roads—and the gutters by the sides. You parked in one, right? It’ll be slick with mud. You won’t be able to get the car out until tomorrow at least.”

He knows John doesn’t believe him, just by one look at his face. He’s watching him, flat-mouthed and frowning, and Roger can’t quite hold his gaze. But a moment later John is picking his fork up and pushing at his food.

“Alright,” John says. “Tomorrow, then. Because of the roads.”

Roger studies him nervously for a moment, unsure if John buys it. If he doesn’t he doesn’t say anything about it, changing the subject as the three of them carry on with breakfast.

Freddie joins him in the fields afterward. He has to borrow a pair of Roger’s galoshes and one of Walt’s old jackets, but he takes to the rough clods and uneven ground with all the grace of a dancer. When John asks him about it he laughs.

“I was a boxer, once upon a time,” he says. “Did it in school.”

“You’re the athletic one of the bunch, then?”

“Oh, John can sit still for hours. I’m not quite like that. It’s just part of who I am. I like to be out and about. I’m sure you’re the same.”

Roger shrugs. “I was never much of an athlete as a kid,” he says.

“No? Too studious?”

“Too small,” he says with a laugh.

They walk in silence for a long beat, Freddie pausing to pick up a smooth white stone and turn it over and over in his palm.

“You’ll be happy to get out of here, I’m sure,” Roger says softly, watching the movement of the stone as it turns over and over and over. “It’s not easy being cooped up.”

Freddie shakes his head softly. “Maybe, yeah. I won’t be happy, though. I’ll miss you.”

“John wants to get out,” he points out.

Freddie shakes his head again. “No. It’s not like that. He just doesn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’ll miss you, too.” He meets Roger’s eyes steadily. “We both will.”

Roger swallows. He has to look away after a beat. The intensity of it is too much all at once.

The two of them fall back into step. Freddie lets the stone slip out of his fingers and fall to the ground, and one of the sheep sniffs at it as if it’s a treat.

“My door’s always open,” Roger says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Just know that.”

Freddie laughs quietly. “You mean that?”

“Yeah.” They walk in silence for a few more steps. “I’ll miss you, too.”

Freddie lists sideways to bump their shoulders together. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to.

They make it back to the house just before dinner. Pasta is cooking on the stove, and John serves it with vegetables he found god knows where. Roger pops open a bottle of wine just to commemorate their last night, and by the time he settles on the couch he feels warm and content.

That’s why he doesn’t expect to be sitting on the bathroom floor four hours later, shivering under a layer of cold sweat as he tries his best to chase the memories from his mind.

There’s a knock on the door, and then it’s squeaking open as Freddie pushes his face through the gap, squinting into the harsh light. “Rog?”

“Yeah,” Roger says, his voice rough and flat. He wipes his eyes. “I’m here.”

Freddie’s eyes fall on him, his face pinched with concern. “Darling,” he breathes. “Nightmares again?”

He nods numbly. There’s nothing to be said about it, so he doesn’t bother.

“Let us help.” He pushes the door open wider, holding out his hands. “Come on.”

“You can’t help.”

“I can and I will. The least I can do is help you get a full night’s sleep before we go.”

“It won’t work.”

“It will. Come on.” He waves his hand until Roger takes it finally, allowing himself to be pulled up. “Come on up. Let us keep you safe.”

He tugs Roger out of the bathroom, turning the light off behind them. Together they wander down the hallway, struggling to navigate in the darkness on sleepy feet before finally reaching the bedroom.

There’s a confused hum from the other side of the bed as Freddie lifts the blankets for Roger to slip under.

“Rog?” John whispers, his voice rough with sleep.

“Nightmares again,” Freddie whispers back. “I told him we could keep them at bay.”

“You can try,” Roger says dully. All he wants is to lose himself to sleep; it seems like a pipe dream at this point.

John sighs, immediately wrapping his arms around him as Roger settles. His t shirt is soft and practically threadbare against Roger’s cheek, his limbs heavy and warm with tiredness. The bed smells like sleep, warm and comforting, and Roger sighs when he feels Freddie settling with his forehead between Roger’s shoulder blades.

“We’ve got you,” Freddie whispers. “Promise.”

Roger opens his mouth to argue, but decides it’s not worth it before the thought has even fully formed. There’s no use in arguing; not when they’re so determined.

It’s not like it ends up mattering, anyway. Within seconds he’s drifting off, pulled under by the warmth of their bodies and the rhythm of their breathing.

Freddie and John leave the next morning.

There’s nothing he can do but watch them go. He tries not to be angry about it; he tries not to resent them as he watches them gather their things and haul them out to the porch. It doesn’t feel fair that they offered him something so close to what he’s been craving, only to take it away. He wants the closeness back. He’s been yearning for it all morning, and it hurts to watch them go. Nevertheless he keeps his thoughts to himself.

It’s Freddie who lingers at the top of the stairs, watching Roger with his mouth pressed into a thin line. “I guess this is it, then,” he says.

“I guess so,” Roger replies flatly, shifting Cirrus’ bottle in his hands. “Drive safe.”

“Thanks.” He hesitates again. “I hope we can find a way to talk soon. We’re in between phone numbers, but—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Roger interrupts. “If you want to see me you know where to find me.”

Freddie grimaces at that, recognizing it for the dismissal it is. Nonetheless he ducks forward quickly, pressing a kiss to Roger’s cheek. “Hang in there,” he says, and then he grabs his bag and follows John down the steps.

And that’s that.

Roger can’t hold it against them, but the next week is hard. The days fall away and time begins to lose meaning once more. He measures his days by the pain in his feet and the mud on his boots. His nights drag on into infinity, time suddenly frozen as he struggles to doze off.

After the first week he turns back to the comfort of the radio. It’s been too many nights of sleep lost, wishing for conversation or the warm arms of a friend. He used to find solace in his solitude, or at least in the misery of it. Now it’s all starting to get to be too much.

He sits down on one of the kitchen chairs in the darkness, reaches for where he knows that the radio is sitting and switches it on. The red LED is like a beacon in the darkness, almost burningly bright.

_“…degrees north,”_ the familiar, smooth voice is saying. _“And that’s without apparent wind figured in, so take it with a grain of salt, as it were. It’s nearing four in the morning now, and a beautiful, clear night out there for anyone who’s listening. For anyone just tuning in, go ahead and read off and I’ll try to tell you what I can.”_

He pauses for a long moment, and Roger takes the opportunity to grab the mic and squeeze the button on the side. “AE7SD,” he rasps, the way he’d heard John do the day before.

_“AE7SD, this is KD7FYX. Am I being graced by the farm visitors once more?”_

“By the actual shepherd, this time,” Roger replies. “Or his farmhand, rather.”

Brian hums, a happy sound. _“How’s the lamb?”_

“Growing fast. Getting too comfortable indoors. He’s sleeping beside the couch right now.”

_“And what’s a shepherd doing up at this time of night?”_ Brian asks, gentle and smooth, and Roger feels his shoulders relax.

“I can’t sleep.”

_“Well, you’re certainly not alone in that, at least. Insomnia?”_

“Night terrors. Bad memories always come back to me late at night.”

_“I may not understand night terrors, but I at least understand that.”_ The connection crackles, as if Brian has somehow bumped the microphone or something. _“Do you want to talk about it?”_

“I don’t even want to think about it,” Roger tells him quietly. “What’s it like out there? Tell me.”

Brian hums. _“Beautiful night. Glassy seas, clear skies. It’s cold out, but that just makes the stars brighter. They’re reflected in the bay. Orion is doing a handstand.”_

“Any ships?” Roger asks, his eyelids drooping.

_“Very few. I don’t see any. I think a few ships are listening in, but they’re not within spotting distance. It’s a beautiful night, and I can’t blame them for staying out late.”_

Roger yawns. “What else?”

_“Am I putting you to sleep?”_ Brian laughs.

“A little.”

_“Good. I suppose I should be honored,”_ he says dryly. _“Hmm. What else? No fog, so the horn is silent tonight. Nothing but the sound of the light going round and round. People ask me if it’s lonely, but really I never feel less alone up here. Between the stars and the radio I’m never short on company.”_

He goes on and on, his voice a quiet, rambling murmur, the odd ship’s radio occasionally breaking in to softly interject coordinates and a trajectory. Roger crosses his forearms on the table and rests his head on them, his eyes drifting shut. Slowly, gradually, he’s lulled to sleep.

He wakes to Joni resting her chin on his thigh and drooling on his leg. Despite the crick in his neck he feels rested for the first time since Freddie and John left.

It becomes a habit.

He tunes in every night, sometimes murmuring his greetings and other times just listening to the voice of the man in the lighthouse. It’s unbelievably soothing, to the point that he looks forward to it every day.

July comes and goes, just like that.

It’s Friday night and he’s nearly dozed off when Brian clears his throat pointedly.

_“Anyway, if you’re just tuning in this is Emerson Light. For my repeat listeners, a little news: I’ll be leaving you all soon as it’s nearly time to go back to school, so you’ll have your previous broadcaster back within the week. I’m sure you all look forward to that. As for me, I’ll be homeless for the next month or so while I wait for my student flat to renew.”_

Roger is reaching for the mic before he can help himself. “Is that a request for a living space?”

_“It might be. Why? Have you got room with your sheep?”_

“I’ve got room in my house. Not much of it, but enough for another person.”

_“You’re about to make some fishermen very jealous, you know.”_

“Oh, like they can talk,” Roger replies lazily. “They hardly have any space, themselves. At least the sheep don’t smell as bad.”

Brian hums. _“I might have to take you up on that, then. Provided you’re serious, that is.”_

“Of course I am,” Roger says, a touch defensive. “Got a sofa and a fairly big bed, and not a whole lot else. It’s better than being homeless.”

_“That it is,”_ Brian muses. _“Wednesday sound good?”_

“Sure.”

_“This is trawler Princess Beauty to Emerson Light,”_ a familiar voice chimes in. _“Can’t believe you’re leaving me for a farmer.”_

Brian laughs. _“I guess I’ll always be the one that got away.”_

_“What we had was beautiful, and that memory will always be with me. At least I have that.”_

“Princess, what exactly did the two of you have?” Roger snorts.

_“Longing from afar, and it was wonderful,”_ the man says wistfully. _“Take care, Emerson.”_

_“So long, Princess,”_ Brian replies, then laughs. _“Just remember there are plenty of fish in the sea.”_

_“Oh, I know that much. Got half of them on my damned boat.”_

Brian is a sight for sore eyes. Roger hasn’t seen another person in weeks now, and he has to resist the urge to run to him, arms open. Instead he just raises a hand in greeting.

“Good drive?” he calls from the porch.

“Good, yeah,” Brian answers. His voice is rough, his eyes puffy and shrouded by shadow, his hair loose and tangled. He looks exhausted; Roger almost forgot that the man is practically nocturnal.

“You can go straight to sleep if you want,” Roger offers. “Take the bed. It’s upstairs. I’ll get started on dinner.”

“Cheers,” Brian murmurs. He drags his duffel through the front door, up the stairs and out of sight.

Roger just shakes his head and crosses into the kitchen, rooting through the pantry for something to prepare for the two of them.

Brian emerges around nine at night, thanks Roger for cooking—just pasta with jarred sauce, but Brian eats like he’s starving to death—helps Roger with the washing up and then curls up on the couch with a thick book. Roger pulls out the copy of Hemingway that John left behind and joins him.

“You don’t need to stay up on my account,” Brian murmurs after the third yawn that Roger hides behind his hand. “You know that I’ll outlast you, anyway.”

“You don’t know my life,” Roger mutters.

Brian just raises his eyebrows at him. “You need to be up early for the flock, don’t you?”

“And what are you gonna do? Not sleep?”

“I won’t be able to sleep for a while yet,” Brian replies, worrying a page between his fingers. “Don’t worry about me.”

Roger wants to argue, but exhaustion is already dragging at his eyelids. “Alright,” he says finally. “Goodnight, then.”

“Night,” Brian replies, already focused back on his book.

Roger climbs the stairs, getting ready for bed quickly while his mind remains focused on the man downstairs all the while. He can’t stop thinking about the fact that the house is no longer empty, and it’s sending something buzzing under his skin.

He missed having someone around.

It takes him a long time to drift off. He can’t get his mind to quiet down, the urge to go downstairs and find Brian practically impossible to quell. When he finally passes out from sheer exhaustion he doesn’t dream, and for that at least he is grateful.

Joni is on the mattress. She’s walking around. No, not Joni. Something bigger.

His eyes drift open, and it takes him a second to make out Brian’s silhouette in the darkness. The sun isn’t up, the sky still dark outside. It’s not yet morning.

“Sorry,” Brian whispers to him. He shifts again before settling on the other side of the bed, out of reach and sight.

“Time is it?” Roger rasps.

“Four. Go back to sleep.”

Roger grunts under his breath. He shifts closer, just enough that he can feel the heat radiating off Brian’s body. He closes his eyes again, lulled back to sleep by the rhythm of Brian’s breathing.

When he wakes again it’s to the birds beginning to sing outside.

It’s not quite dawn, the light barely peaking over the horizon. He’s warm—he’s _really_ warm, and he’s never been quite so comfortable. It takes him a long moment to register the weight against his back as Brian’s arm, his face tucked over Roger’s shoulder and his nose pressed into the nape of his neck. One of his legs is thrown over one of Roger’s own.

Roger grimaces. He already knows it’s going to be impossible for him to slip out of his hold without a struggle. Shifting toward his side of the bed only confirms it; Brian grumbles under his breath at the movement, the hand around Roger’s waist tightening to drag him closer once more.

“Let go, you clingy git,” Roger mutters under his breath. He all but slithers out from under Brian’s arm, letting out a breath when he finally manages to scoot off the edge of the bed and stand up.

In his sleep, Brian frowns deeply.

Roger quells a wave of guilt as he gets dressed and trots down the stairs to prepare Cirrus’ bottle and make himself some coffee.

It’s a clear day, for which he’s grateful. The flock wanders around in lazy patterns, Jimi and Joni doing most of the work, and he’s glad for that. It gives him time to get lost in his own thoughts, stepping over clods of grass and absently kicking at stones.

He misses John and Freddie.

He didn’t think that he would. He didn’t even want them there in the first place, but now that they’re gone he can’t stop thinking about them. He can’t stop thinking about Freddie’s gentle voice, John’s sure eyes and confident hands, the perceptiveness that practically radiated off the two of them—he can’t help but miss having them around.

He has no idea how to contact them, if he were to even be brave enough to try something like that. He has no idea how he’d find them again. He shouldn’t push his luck, anyway. He shouldn’t assume that he can simply make friends again; that he can simply regain his place in the world and go forward like nothing ever happened.

Distantly, he wonders if his own penance will ever be enough—if absolution can even be found in rolling fields and pastures. He wonders if it’s enough to be alone with his thoughts. They wouldn’t want this for him; Danny, Sarah, Luke and—

No. He can’t guess what they’d want anymore. He lost that right.

He turns back toward the house around lunch time, the flock trotting along behind him as they crest the hill above where the farmhouse rises out of the crisp green grass. He can smell food cooking as he gets closer, and when he opens the front door it’s to see Brian standing at the stove.

“I made soup,” he calls over his shoulder. “How was it out there?”

“Good, yeah,” Roger replies distractedly, wandering over to peer into the pot on the stove. “Been up long?”

“Not long, no. Sorry about that. I’m still trying to get back onto a proper sleep schedule.”

Roger shrugs. “Whatever you need to do. It doesn’t matter much to me.”

For whatever reason, Brian laughs at that. “I’ll try to break out of it regardless,” he says. “Not sure how well it’ll work, but…”

“Chronic?” Roger asks him.

Brian nods. “Late studier. You know how it is, or maybe not. I don’t know.”

“I was a student. For a while, anyway,” he amends.

“What happened?” Brian asks.

Roger straightens.

“I’m sorry,” Brian rushes. “It’s none of my business. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Roger says. “It’s—there was just some personal stuff that I had to take care of. I dropped out. Didn’t much like school, anyway.”

Brian is silent for a beat. “What were you studying? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

“Dentistry.”

Brian laughs. “I can’t blame you for dropping out.”

Roger allows himself a smile. “All makes sense now, huh? Why, what about you?”

“Astrophysics.” He grins when Roger mimes a gag. “Oh, it’s not so bad.”

“Makes sense why you’re nocturnal, though,” he says, getting to work setting the table. “What brought you up to the lighthouse, then?”

Brian shrugs. “It was good money, for one. It gave me plenty of time to study while working, as well. The lighthouse is owned by the father of one of my professors, so taking the job was almost a favor.”

“Bribing them for a grade, are you?”

“Can’t hurt,” Brian says with a smile that shows off his pointy teeth. “It’s not like I need it, but…”

“Oh, so humble.”

Brian snorts. He’s silent for a beat as he doles out soup, and Roger watches his face: sunlight playing across the underside of his cheekbones, his eyes somehow warm despite his seriousness.

“It’s a decent gig,” Brian says finally, his voice soft, “but I don’t think I was cut out for it. Too lonely. I need to be around people.”

“I get what you mean,” Roger murmurs. “I go too long without seeing a living thing that doesn’t walk on four legs.”

“Yeah.” His eyes flick up to Roger’s finally, and something in Roger shivers at the intensity of it. “It’s hard to be all alone. Another person—anything. I felt starved for human contact by the end. I think if I didn’t have the radio I would’ve gone insane.”

Roger takes a deep breath. “Well, now you’ve got me.”

They watch each other for a long moment, and it’s only because of how closely Roger is studying him that he sees Brian’s eyes flick down to his mouth. “Roger,” he starts, “I don’t mean to be forward, but—”

Roger doesn’t let him finish. He leans forward and kisses him.

He half expected Brian to push him away or even to freeze up before stammering out an excuse—hell, he nearly surprised _himself_ with the suddenness of it, and he wouldn’t be shocked at a rejection—but Brian does neither.

Instead he gets Brian pushing into the contact, his eagerness matching Roger’s own as he drags him closer with a tight grip around his waist. Roger follows the motion, pressing forward until he feels Brian’s back bump against the counter. He drags him closer and licks into his mouth until Brian moans, low and rough. One of his hands slips under the hem of Roger’s shirt, and the feeling of skin against his own is like an electric shock straight to his nerve endings. He hadn’t realized how long he’d gone without this kind of contact, and all at once he can’t get enough of it.

Brian’s hands grab at his hips, dragging him closer. He’s restless as if he can’t decide quite how he wants him, and Roger can’t help but feel the same. He wants him closer; he wants to push him away and drag him upstairs to the bed, but he doesn’t think he has it in himself to resist contact for that long.

Brian bends his knee slightly, his thigh pressing between Roger’s own, and all thought of moving leaves his mind as he ruts aimlessly into the pressure.

He can feel Brian’s cock against his hip, pressing through the soft corduroy of his trousers in a hard line. The thought of even that has his head spinning, and really, when did he become so sensitive to these things? How could he ever have given this up? Brian’s mouth drifts to his jaw, his teeth scraping Roger’s skin as he lets out rhythmic little grunts of pleasure. How did he ever deny himself this—the act of being close to another person; of feeling them like this?

“Off,” Brian says, his voice low and rough and his fingers tugging insistently at the hem of Roger’s shirt.

It’s work to comply; it’s so much work, but then he’s tugging his shirt over his head and Brian is making quick work of his own and then it’s skin against _so_ much skin, and really, it was completely worth it.

He groans as Brian goes to work on his trousers, his slender fingers shaking and slipping against the button, but then all at once they’re being tugged down and his hand is on Roger’s cock and he’s brilliant, he’s absolutely stellar and his hands are _great_ at getting buttons undone, _fabulous_ on Roger’s skin and his cock and he’s babbling into Brian’s collarbone and he can’t stop until Brian drags him up with a too-rough grip on Roger’s hair and presses his lips against Roger’s own and kisses him like he wants to devour him, like he’s burning alive, and his orgasm hits him like a freight train, like a damn cannonball straight to the chest, and that’s all she wrote.

Brian does a phenomenal job of holding him up when his knees give out.

When he opens his eyes it’s to the sight of Brian’s curls cutting across his vision like latticework, blurry and indistinct. He presses a kiss against the skin below his jaw. It’s warm and soft beneath his mouth, and when he licks his lips they taste vaguely salty.

Brian’s wiry arms are wrapped around his lower back, keeping him steady on his feet. Their bodies are still pressed together, Brian’s cock still hard against Roger’s hip, and that really won’t do.

He reaches behind himself to grip Brian’s fingers, tugging his hand away so that he can sink to his knees.

“Rog,” Brian breathes, wide-eyed.

His zipper is easy to undo now that Roger’s hands aren’t shaking. His cock is thick and perfect in Roger’s grasp. He licks a long stripe along the underside, groaning at the taste of precome at the tip.

Brian’s head thunks back against the cabinets. His hands card through Roger’s hair.

How did he go so long without this?

He missed the taste and the feeling of someone above him. He missed the sound of another person’s breathing. He missed being able to give pleasure; being able to read someone and know what they need. He missed taking care of another person.

Brian moans raggedly above him.

He’s out of practice, but it’s okay. His hand covers what his mouth can’t reach, his other palm running up Brian’s thigh to steady his hip. He closes his eyes and relies on his instincts and reminds himself to breathe through his nose, and Brian’s fingers scratching against his scalp send tingles prickling between his shoulder blades.

It’s perfect. It doesn’t last nearly long enough.

Brian rushes out a warning and tugs on his hair, and Roger ignores him. He tastes him moments later, bitter and hot, and swallows just because he missed the feeling of it. Brian moans when he does, and when Roger pulls away he’s watching him with hazy eyes, his mouth hanging open as he tries to catch his breath.

“Fuck,” he says succinctly.

Roger laughs against his hip.

They get cleaned up in the bathroom, Brian yelping when the first spray of icy water catches him across the shoulders. Roger feels like a new man when he steps out, his mind sharp and his thoughts grounded for the first time in ages. He’s buzzing with energy. He can’t stop moving. He can’t stop smiling. He’s thirsty. He’s _starving._

“I needed that,” Brian mutters, meeting his eyes in the mirror over the sink and sending him a tiny smile, and Roger grins back.

He feeds the dogs and gives Cirrus his bottle, and then he and Brian eat lukewarm soup at the table and listen to the radio. Brian’s foot sneaks across the gap midway through the meal, his ankle pressed against Roger’s own, and Roger’s chest feels somehow lighter.

They sleep together again that night. Their faces are side-by-side on one pillow, Roger sprawled halfway over Brian’s chest, Brian’s arm over the small of his back, their legs tangled together. Brian’s breathing goes long and deep as if he’s trying to inhale Roger and keep him in his lungs indefinitely.

They should probably talk about it, but at the same time they don’t need to.

Brian wakes him up with slow, sleepy kisses the next morning, the roughness of his jaw scratching against Roger’s throat. It devolves into lazy blowjobs, and when Roger steps outside to tend to the flock his steps feel lighter somehow.

What was rocked in his chest the day Freddie and John arrived is finally being shaken loose. He can’t understand it; he doesn’t know quite how to identify it, but it’s sparked a restlessness in him. Words have been building up in his chest, choking him and making him sick with the way they settle there. Now they’re fighting to be free.

He can’t talk to Brian about it. He doesn’t want to. The other man doesn’t deserve the weight of them, and he isn’t sure he can trust him with them, anyway.

He tells his sheep instead.

He sits down on a rock in a vibrant green field and he talks. He tells them about Luke and how he was always getting in trouble with the nuns when they were kids. He tells them about how he used to trip on his untied shoelaces; about the day he and Roger met Danny, their buttoned-up, quiet best friend who had a righteously angry streak to match Roger’s own.

He tells them about the two of them and how much Roger loved them; about skipping classes and playing footie with them, about going to the store for sweets with them. He tells them about the time he and Luke kissed when they were thirteen and then didn’t talk to each other for a week afterward. They never discussed it, but that was okay; they weren’t ready to. Maybe they would have one day. It felt like they had so much time back then.

Danny met Sarah and they were as in love as any old married couple, and Sarah fell into their little group so perfectly. She balanced all of them out so well: the pragmatism to Luke and Roger’s anger, the strength behind Danny’s soft sensitivity; and a few months later she brought Jay with her.

Jay, who Roger loved. He’ll probably always love her.

He ends up sobbing his eyes out, his knees curled up to his chest and the stone still cold beneath him. His entire body shakes with it, horrible choking sounds leaving him. He’s had time to mourn them, but not the way he needed; he realizes that now. He lets himself cry, and for the first time it doesn’t feel like mourning. It feels like a release.

His breath is still catching in his throat, his eyes still pressed against his knees, when he feels a furry, wet face nudge into his own. It’s more like a head butt than anything; there’s really nothing gentle about it, and when he looks up it’s to the sight of Cara staring him straight in the eye.

“What?” he asks her.

“Baa!” she bleats, straight into his ear.

He reaches up to wrap an arm across the fluff covering her shoulders, wiping his eyes against his sleeve as he looks around. The flock hasn’t moved, the majority of them still grazing on the lush grass, though Esther is staring at him from a few paces away. When he makes eye contact with her she bleats loudly.

“What’s the matter?” he calls to her. “You lot want to go see Brian?”

Cara shuffles closer, pressing a damp nose against his cheek. He grimaces even as he tangles his fingers in her wool.

“I loved them,” he tells her quietly, wiping his cheeks one last time. He looks out across the fields, the low grey clouds drifting across the sky and bringing sprinklings of rain with them. He leans his head against the strength of her shoulder and her wool is soft against his cheek, and he thinks it to himself again and again. _I loved them; I loved them; I’ll always love them._

She shuffles in place, ducking to gnaw at a tender clump of grass at the base of the stone. Dewdrops glitter in the turf, catching the sun through the clouds and alighting like diamonds.

Leftover soup is heating on the stove when he returns home, and Brian is dozing on the couch. Roger wakes him up with a kiss to the forehead and a hand brushing through his hair, and his chest warms at the sight of the sleepy smile and crinkled hazel eyes that he gets in return.

They fall into a routine that week. They wake up together, Roger mourning the loss of Brian’s warmth and touch as he climbs out of bed to start his rounds. He isn’t sure exactly what Brian does during the day. He thinks he sleeps in, at least for a little while, and he’s usually reading when Roger comes home in the afternoon. It’s always a different book, always something that looks exceedingly academic and dry and stuffy.

He usually has dinner ready, and if it’s not then it’s nearly there. He’s a good cook, or at least he’s better than Roger is, and Roger’s never been one to seek out vegetarian food but he’s starting to get used to it. After dinner they fall into bed together, getting each other off with wandering hands and mouths and a sense of surety that grows stronger each day, and when they finally fall asleep Roger feels safe and satisfied and content.

His nightmares stay gone for a week. It’s long enough that he thinks they might be gone entirely; that all he needed to do to shake them for good was cry in a field and fall asleep in Brian’s arms every night. He was wrong, of course. That would’ve been too easy.

The world is black and blue, and panic is clawing at his chest.

He can’t breathe. The water is heavy as anything, and if he breathes in he’ll die. Hands are pressing down on either one of his shoulders, and he’s too weak to fight against them—he’s too small, too delicate, too frail. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that he’s going to die like this, helpless to fight back.

The pressure lets up just as his vision starts fading.

He bursts through the surface, gasping and sobbing as air returns to his too-small lungs, the water on his face masking his angry, embarrassed, panicked tears. He paddles rapidly backward until his feet hit mud, and then he’s throwing himself toward the opposite side of the river as he coughs and tries to catch his breath.

“Roger,” his mother calls, her voice pitying.

“It was a joke,” says his dad. Beside him one of his friends is laughing, nearly doubled over as he fights to breathe. It’s not too different from the way Roger is choking now, but in a completely different context. “Come on, Rog. I was just kidding.”

“Roger,” his mother calls again.

The dream changes.

_“There are many here among us, who think that life is but a joke.”_ The music is tinny through the shitty radio, and barely audible over the chatter.

He’s in a car. There’s a rise, then a turn, and then his brain shudders hard.

“I don’t trust them,” Luke spits. “I don’t want you anywhere near them, you understand? I don’t give a shit if he’s your family.”

His ribs hurt.

“Fuck, Rog,” Luke breathes. “I just want you to be alright, don’t you get that?”

_I just want you to be safe._

He sees Luke and Jay; always Luke and Jay, their dark eyes meeting over his shoulder, Jay’s hand still delicately touching the black and blue mess of Roger’s rib cage. Luke’s jaw is ticking.

_I want us all to be okay. I want—I want us to be happy. That’s all._

There’s glass in his palms. It glitters, almost like diamonds and rubies are imbedded in his skin. The world is silent and empty and it will never be full again.

He doesn’t snap awake like he usually does. He drifts back instead, lured by a warm hand brushing his hair back. There are lips against his neck.

He takes a deep breath, rolling over in bed. Brian is there, watching him in the darkness.

“You were crying,” he says.

Roger just nods.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He swallows, his eyes drifting to the window. The moon is rising. It’s nearly full, he thinks, or maybe it’s starting to shrink. He can never remember the difference.

The pad of Brian’s thumb runs under his eye, feather-light. He leans forward and kisses the corner of Roger’s mouth.

“Not now,” Roger whispers. “Maybe one day.”

Brian blinks at him in the darkness, but he nods. He opens his arms and Roger settles into them, leaning his head on Brian’s shoulder. His chest is warm against Roger’s own, his arms heavy and comforting over the pile of quilts. He’s breathing; all around him he’s breathing. It’s rustling Roger’s hair and warming the top of his head and lifting Roger’s body rhythmically, up and down and up and down. He shuts his eyes and basks in it.

Beside the bed, there’s a skittering of noise and a whining sound.

Roger sighs. “Come on up, then,” he says.

The mattress bounces as the dogs jump up. Joni settles behind Roger’s back, whimpering into his ear and licking at the side of his face. He reaches up to pet her head and she lays down, her flank pressed against him. Jimi settles across his and Brian’s legs.

“They’re protective,” Roger mutters into Brian’s shoulder.

Brian shifts, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Yeah?” he whispers. “Good.”

Roger grunts, closing his eyes. It takes him seconds to fall back asleep, and this time he doesn’t dream.

Two days later they receive visitors.

Roger is pouring water from the kettle into the waiting mugs when there’s a knock on the door. His head snaps up, Joni already leaping from the sofa and running to the entrance hall, but Roger can’t see through the front window from the kitchen.

“Brian!” he calls. “Door!”

There’s a rustling upstairs, followed by a muffled _thunk._ Which, right. Brian isn’t exactly in a state fit to receive guests.

Roger sighs, putting the kettle down and wiping his hands on his jeans as he wanders to the door. No doubt it’s the milkman, or else it’s someone needing directions. People tend to get lost frequently out here.

He’s barely paying attention when he pulls the door open, but the sight that greets him has his spine straightening.

Freddie and John are standing arm-to-arm on his front porch. They wear twin looks of nervousness on their faces, and if not for their tidy clothes and fluffy hair Roger would have been thrown back to the first time he ever saw them. As it is he can only stare blankly.

“Roger,” Freddie starts.

“Yes,” Roger breathes, gathering himself quickly. “Yes! Alright? You didn’t get lost again, did you?”

“No, no. We actually—well, we wanted to see you.”

“Me?” He frowns. “Why?”

“We missed you, is all,” John pipes up, and Roger fights back a smile when he notices that the tips of his ears are red. “We wanted to drop in to see how you are.”

“I’m alright, yeah,” he says, stepping aside quickly. “Sorry. Come in and stay for a bit. I’ve just made tea.”

They step forward eagerly, looking around the house with small smiles. Roger shakes his head, watching as Freddie runs a reverent hand over the worn, age-polished wood of the bannister.

“Missed it that much, did you?” Roger asks him skeptically.

“You’d be surprised,” John says, his tone desert dry. “Practically the minute we left Freddie was already begging to come back.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Freddie replies, turning away quickly and wandering toward the kitchen. “Like you weren’t the same way.”

Roger snorts. “Yeah?” he asks John.

John turns, abruptly in Roger’s space. The air feels still and heavy all at once, the dark warmth in John’s eyes leaving him feeling pinned.

“The rest of the north doesn’t quite measure up,” John says softly, a smile on his lips. “Can you really blame me?”

Roger swallows hard. “Maybe you should have never left in the first place,” he gets out.

He earns a real smile for his efforts, John’s eyes crinkling sweetly.

Roger follows him to the kitchen, taking in the sight of Freddie placing mugs out on the table. “You shouldn’t have worried about me,” Roger tells them, retrieving the pot from the counter. “I certainly wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

Freddie waves a dismissive hand. “I could hardly help it, could I? I’m sorry to say that I don’t think we really left you on the best of terms.”

Roger frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, just—what with the not sleeping and everything—”

“Don’t mind him,” John says quickly. “He’s a mother hen at the best of times, and he doesn’t think before he speaks.”

“No, it’s alright,” Roger replies, bemused. “I don’t mind. I’m—not that I wasn’t doing well before, but I actually think I’m doing better.”

John tilts his head curiously. “Yeah?”

Before Roger can reply a clatter of footsteps sounds from down the hall. Freddie nearly jumps out of his skin, but Roger just smiles to himself as Brian appears in the doorway to the kitchen, messy-haired and clad in jeans and a wide-necked shirt that does nothing to hide a love bite still lingering on the juncture of his neck from a few days ago.

“So sorry I couldn’t get the door earlier, Rog,” he rushes to say.

Roger snorts, grabbing an extra mug from the rack. “It’s no problem.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Brian May. I’ve been staying with Roger for the last week or two.”

“Brian May,” Freddie muses. “It feels odd to say, but I think I know your voice.”

“Brian was the radioman at the local light house in the owner’s stead,” Roger tells him. “I offered him a place to stay on his way back to London.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” Freddie says. “I’m Freddie, and this is John. We had the pleasure of abusing Roger’s hospitality earlier in the month.”

John leans against the counter, his smirk hidden from Freddie and Brian’s view. “Been doing better, huh?” he teases in an undertone. “Are you _sure_ you’ve been sleeping more?”

Roger laughs quietly. “I don’t need your judgement, Deacon.”

“Judgement? Oh, believe me, I’m really not judging.”

“Oh?” Roger raises his eyebrows.

John just shakes his head, smiling wryly as he turns back to the table. Roger follows him to dole tea out into mugs.

“Well, it seems awkward to ask now that we know you have a full house,” Freddie starts. “Thanks, dear.”

“Course,” Roger hums. “I wouldn’t call it a full house, though. Why? What were you going to ask me?”

“Only if we could impose on you again,” John supplies. “We don’t want to be an inconvenience, of course, but we’re on our way back to the city now and could use a few night’s rest. Directions to the inn would be more than good enough, though. This house is hardly built to host a crowd.”

Roger looks up, his eyes flicking between John and Freddie. The two of them look more than ready to do exactly as John suggested, and Roger wonders briefly how ready they were to take no for an answer. They seemed almost to expect it.

And then he looks to Brian, who’s watching their guests with unbridled interest, and he makes up his mind.

“Of course you can stay here,” he says swiftly, going back to his task as Freddie’s head snaps up. “I don’t know why you’d bother paying at the inn when the house is more than big enough.”

John shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Is it?”

“Bed’s big,” Roger shrugs, rushing to continue as John’s eyes widen. “Couch, too. I think there’s a spare mattress packed away in the attic as well. I thought I saw it up there the other day, anyway. I can go and—”

“No, that’ll do,” Freddie says quickly. “The couch is more than fine.”

“You’re sure?” Roger asks, reaching for the sugar.

“Of course. We’re guests here. Anything is more than enough.”

“Well, that’s settled, then.” He takes a slow sip of tea. “And don’t say another word about being unwanted guests. It’s really not true.”

“We weren’t exactly invited.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” Brian says softly. “It’s hard to be on your own all the time. I know that as well as Roger does. It’s good to have friends around.”

“Friends,” Freddie echoes in a murmur.

“Friends and loved ones. People need people. It’s hard to go without contact for so long.”

Freddie hums. “Well, the least we can do is try to provide that,” he replies, holding Brian’s gaze as he says it, and Roger doesn’t think he imagines the way Brian swallows hard at his words.

Under the table, John’s ankle nudges his own. Roger doesn’t react to it, leaving their legs pressed together, and when a moment later the topic changes the four of them carry on as though nothing had happened.

The days pass quickly, after that.

It’s different than it was before, with Freddie and John here. Maybe it’s him and the new wakefulness sprouting in his bones. He feels awake—he feels alive more than he did before, as if he’s taking the first breaths of his life, the air hitting his raw lungs with a newness that leaves him breathless all over again.

He feels good.

He feels even better waking up to find John already in the kitchen. He feels better going out to tend to the flock and dragging Freddie along with him for a walk in the pasture. He feels better coming home at night to the sight of Brian sipping a cup of tea on the porch and flipping through a familiar copy of _On The Road._

“Good book?” Roger calls to him as he climbs the step.

Brian shrugs. “Alright, yeah. It’s new, anyway. I pinched it from John.”

“I know,” Roger laughs. “I think John pinched it from me.”

They struggle to cook dinner together. They eat together, and then they settle down together. Aside from the two new faces, Roger’s routine stays relatively the same. The four of them settle rapidly into each other, as easy as breathing.

His routine with Brian stays the same.

He’s trying to be quiet. He’s got the back of his own wrist thrown over his mouth to muffle his gasps, a task that’s easier said than done when Brian has committed to sucking him off as slowly and as thoroughly as he can. It’s left Roger groping for him in the dim light, his free hand steadied by one of Brian’s own as he weaves his fingers through tangled curls.

“Fuck,” he whispers as the pleasure builds and doubles back on itself. “Fuck, _Bri,_ Brian—”

Brian pulls off all at once, grinning at him with bruised lips as Roger lets his head thunk backward.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

Brian hums, ducking down again. “I don’t think you mean that.”

“Of course I don’t,” Roger pants, and Brian laughs. “Come back.”

Brian shakes his head, but he ducks down again to take Roger back into his mouth.

Roger’s eyelids droop at the feeling. He sighs slowly, fighting to keep it from turning into a moan. Brian’s a tease when he wants to be, and Roger has only grown more familiar with that fact over the last week or so; his mouth is hot and velvet-soft and slick as anything, but every movement is just a hair too light. Brian pulls back to lick at the head with the gentlest touch, and Roger almost sobs.

“Brian,” he rasps out, raising his head to look down the bed as Brian finally takes pity on him and sucks him for real. His gaze catches on the open crack of the door behind Brian’s head. Wide green eyes meet his own, cheeks flushed, pink lips parted on a gasp.

He isn’t proud to say that’s what sets him over the edge.

Brian does an admirable job of catching it all even as he looks up at Roger with surprise. Roger, for his part, can only manage to muffle his groan into his wrist as his toes curl into the mattress. Flashbulbs go off behind his eyelids, and by the time he manages to catch himself and look back at the doorway the space is dark and empty.

Brian raises his eyebrows at him, a shit-eating grin already spreading across his face. “That was quick, huh?”

“Bloody tease,” Roger gripes. “Give me a break.”

“Hey, it’s a compliment if anything.”

“I can’t give you all the credit,” Roger sighs. He steels himself for a minute, gathering his wits together, before sitting up and reaching for his boxers.

“Going somewhere?” Brian asks, bemused. He can’t quite hide the downtick to the corner of his mouth, and Roger smiles as he leans forward to kiss it away.

“I’ll get to you in a minute,” he promises. “I have to find John.”

“John?”

“Yeah. He was watching through the door.”

“He was watching?” Brian says, turning to look at the still-ajar door, and then turns back to Roger as realization seems to dawn. “ _Oh._ You mean you—”

“Yeah,” Roger mutters.

“Bit of an exhibitionist, Rog?”

“Shut it.”

Brian laughs softly, standing slowly and stretching. “Stay here,” he says with a fond smile. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Brian, don’t be a prick.”

“I won’t. I promise I won’t.” He licks his lips, thoughtful. “I was thinking, actually. I wouldn’t mind if he did more than watch.”

Roger’s mouth falls open.

“If it’s okay with you, that is,” Brian hurries to say. “It’s—I was thinking about it the other day. About Freddie, too.”

“You mean that?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, suddenly shy. “I mean, I like them. He and Freddie both. And you like them, don’t you? I could tell from the way they talk about you that they like you.”

He does. Of course he does. “Let me talk to him.”

Brian shakes his head. “I’ll go. He doesn’t know me as well, and I’m not the one currently hosting all of us. It’ll be less pressure on him if he turns me down than you.”

“Thought this through, have you?” Roger asks.

Brian rolls his eyes. “You need the recovery time, anyway. Put your cock away.”

Yeah, that’s a fair point.

He pulls on some boxers, settling back into the sheets as Brian leaves the room. The world outside is cold and blue, a sharp contrast to the cozy oranges and golds of the bedroom. The sight of it alone makes him shiver.

He allows his mind to wander to the two guests sleeping on his couch—to Freddie’s plush mouth and John’s strong fingers. For the first time he allows himself to imagine what it might be like not to hold them at arms length but to allow them to get close.

He wonders what it would be like to have the love that flows so boldly and freely between the two of them: their easy touches, their casual affection and the way they seem to always have one eye on the other. To have them and Brian almost sounds too good to be true, but the idea of it alone has his breath catching. His hand wanders across the thin cotton of his boxers; he’s still too sensitive, and he hisses at the feeling.

He allows his eyes to drift shut and his hand to fall away as he waits for Brian to return. The golden dredges of the afterglow are just beginning to give way to the tug of sleep when the door creaks. It swings open as he rolls over, just in time to see Brian slip inside.

“Was that a no, then?” Roger whispers across the room.

Brian grins at him. “It was an ‘I’ll think about it,’” he says, tugging his jeans off. “Roll over. Give me some room.”

Roger sighs and does so, settling into Brian’s arms. Brian presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“Was he just saying that?” Roger asks him.

“No.” Brian shifts against him. “No, he was definitely serious. He said he’ll ask Freddie.”

“How are you sure?”

Brian studies him for a beat, his eyes warm. “He kissed me,” he admits.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, and that’s all I’m saying.”

“You can’t just leave it at that,” Roger insists, pinching his hip when Brian presses his lips pointedly shut. “Come on. What was it like?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Come _on_ Bri, at least tell me if it was good.”

Brian snorts. “Of course it was good. Is that what you want to hear? It was great. Phenomenal snog.”

“Now you’re just teasing me.”

“I’m seeing new colors. I think his mouth could cure cancer. He—”

“You’re gonna get me hard again if you keep talking like that.”

“Oh, like that’s any surprise. You’re insatiable. Of course you want four sets of hands in here just to—”

“Well, there goes the blowie I was going to give you,” Roger says pointedly, rolling over.

Brian laughs shortly. “Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it.”

“Nope.”

“Roger,” he whines.

“No. You’ve insulted my dignity.”

A soft kiss lands on his shoulder. “Rog,” he sighs sweetly.

“Fuck off.”

“Come on, beautiful.”

“Wanker. You just want me for my blow jobs.”

“Now that’s a lie and you know it,” Brian murmurs, kissing him again and tugging at his hip lightly until Roger rolls over. “Come on.”

“I dislike you immensely,” Roger says, and then sighs contentedly when Brian kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Mmh. I’ll think about moving out, then.”

“No,” Roger breathes. He lets his fingers wander downward from Brian’s hips, swallowing the soft gasp he lets escape. “No, don’t do that.”

Brian groans low in his throat, tugging him closer, and neither of them speaks for a long while.

It’s drizzling the next morning when Roger stops at the farmhouse for lunch. He jogs up the steps, carelessly stomping his galoshes against the doormat and watching as large clods of mud and grass fall out of the treads and make a mess against the damp wood. He hardly pays it any mind; the only thing he cares about at the moment is a cup of tea.

“Bri?” he calls as he swings the door open, sighing at the warmth of the house.

The kitchen is empty. Someone left a sandwich out for him on the table, and he can only be grateful for that. He washes his hands quickly in the sink before grabbing it off the plate and eating a quarter of it in one bite.

“Rog?” John calls from upstairs. “Is that you?”

“Yeah. Is Brian around?”

“He ran for groceries,” John replies. He appears on the landing, his hips cocked and his hands hidden in his hoodie pocket. “Said we could use a loaf of bread. He took Freddie with him.”

“You didn’t want to go, too?”

He shakes his head. “I’m all tied up.”

“Kinky,” Roger says flatly, stuffing another quarter of sandwich into his mouth.

“Doing laundry,” John says with an eye roll. “Got any?”

Roger shrugs. “It’s in the hamper. Cheers.”

“Course.” He starts up the stairs and then pauses, frowning. “A letter came, by the way.”

“Oh? Who from?”

“Dunno. It’s in the hallway.”

Roger frowns, wandering to the hallway table. There’s an envelope there, tucked inconspicuously against the base of the lamp. It’s addressed to him by name, and the return address is somewhere in Malta. He tears it open quickly, unfolding the letter inside.

_Roger—_

_Well, its been a long while now. I’m pleased to say we’ve been having a pleasant time of it, and I’ve liked nothing more than wandering around the towns and beaches. Nothing more that is to say than my farm, my herd and the dogs. I even miss the rain. I’d heard people say you never miss your home more than when you’re away from it. Seventy-six years now that I’ve been alive, and it’s taken me this long to know that what they say is true. Absence makes the heart grow fonder._

_I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. I feel that in many ways the lessons I’ve learned have been because of you. It wasn’t just the money that got me the chance to get out, and you’ve truly been a gift from god. I can only hope that this reveals itself to you as a gift as well; that you find some comfort in a home that’s waiting for you, and that you’ve found peace._

_I’ll be back at the end of August. Take care, lad._

_Walter._

He scans it once, then again. His throat feels thick all at once with an emotion he can’t parse. He leans back against the wall, the letter still gripped between his fingers, and stares blankly ahead.

It’s not that he thought he’d have more time. It’s not even that he’s sad about leaving, necessarily. He knew this wouldn’t last forever, and a part of him is even ready to be gone. He’s just not sure he’s ready to go back. He’s not sure the world is ready to _have_ him back.

Ever since the accident he’s been running. He hasn’t been able to stop. He hasn’t been able to settle in the world or within himself, and months have fallen away just like that. He hasn’t longed for home; he hasn’t longed for anything, other than the friends he once had. He left everything behind and didn’t long for it for a single day. He didn’t allow himself to want a thing.

All at once he wants so much he hurts.

He misses going out. He misses being in the city. He misses dancing in clubs and sleeping through class and driving in his car without panic clawing at his chest as he rounds every turn. He misses _people_ ; he misses being surrounded by people. He misses talking to them. He misses meeting strangers. He misses learning from them.

Everything was taken from him—his friends, his happiness, his life—by a drunk driver and a dark road, and he let it happen. He’ll never forget that night, just like he’ll never forget them. He’ll carry them with him always.

He’ll carry them forward, though. He’ll carry himself forward. Finally, miraculously, he’s ready to do that.

“Roger?”

He blinks. John is standing in front of him.

“Are you alright?”

His throat feels rough, and he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he gets out. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You’re crying,” John says doubtfully, green eyes studying him with concern.

“I’m okay,” he says again, blinking wetness out of his eyes, and this time he feels like he means it. “I’m alright. It’s a letter from the owner of the farm.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. He’s coming home. That’s all.” He smiles wryly. “We’re all about to be homeless. We’ll need to start thinking about what we’re doing next.”

“Roger,” John starts, still frowning. He reaches out, an aborted gesture that stalls halfway across the space between them. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

He laughs at that. It comes out wet, a horribly raw sound, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. Everything about him is raw; that might as well be, too. “I like you,” he says, his gaze not wavering from John’s face. “I really fucking like you.”

John’s eyes widen. “I like you, too,” he says.

“And I like Fred, and I like Bri. I like you three so fucking much.” He laughs in spite of himself. “I want to keep you around, if that’s okay. Wherever you’re going, that’s where I want to be.”

“In London? I thought you don’t like the city.”

He shakes his head. “I—no, I love it. I miss it so much, and I know that if I go on my own I’ll miss _you._ I need you three in my life. I…” he wavers, his resolve failing him. “Will you please just think about it?”

He barely gets the words out before John is leaning forward to kiss him hard, pressing him back further against the wall. His fingers are gentle against Roger’s jaw, holding him right where he wants him, and Roger’s breath catches in his throat.

“I don’t need to,” John whispers when he pulls away a beat later, resting their foreheads together. “Of course we—we’d be overjoyed if you came with us. Of course.”

“You mean that?” Roger whispers.

John is barely able to kiss him with the way the two of them are smiling. He does his best of it anyway, and it practically makes Roger giddy. “Come on,” John murmurs between kisses. “Why do you think we came back?”

Roger laughs, high and giddy, and drags him closer with a hand around the back of his neck. There’s hardly any finesse to it, but that doesn’t matter; not with the way John is hauling him closer and sucking on his lip greedily.

Somehow Roger manages to get the upper hand, pushing off the wall and walking them backward in the direction of the stairs. When John realizes what he’s doing he seems more than eager to follow, but just as unenthusiastic about parting as Roger is. They stumble blindly over each other’s feet until they both careen against the front door.

John giggles against his mouth before pushing him harder against it. He gathers Roger’s hands and pins them playfully, licking into his mouth and swallowing the thin moan that Roger isn’t quite able to hold back. Roger’s knees go weak, all thoughts of making it upstairs leaving his mind. They can do this here just as well as up there. Any counterarguments are weak in the face of John’s touch.

All at once, the door behind them is pushing open.

Roger squeaks in surprise, stumbling forward into John’s chest. John just barely manages to catch them, holding Roger protectively closer and backing them up away from the door that continues to press against Roger’s back.

“Oi!” Freddie yells from the other side. “Let us in!”

“Sorry,” John calls, stepping back quickly and tugging Roger along with him.

Freddie’s head appears between the door and the jam, a shit-eating grin on his face as he studies the two of them. “What have we here, then?”

“It’s, uh,” John starts. “It’s not what it looks like…?”

“Who are you kidding?” Roger mutters to him. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

John looks down at him, a dizzy little smile already perched on his bruised lips.

“What is it, then?” Freddie asks pointedly.

Brian pushes through the door after him, the entryway suddenly crowded as he squeezes into the space. “Thanks for helping with the bags, Fred,” he gripes.

“Roger got a letter,” John says softly. “He has to leave the farm soon, and he wants to come back to London with us.”

_“Oh,”_ Freddie breathes, his gaze falling on Roger. “Is that true? You want to come with us?”

“I’d miss you too much otherwise,” Roger replies quietly. “You too, Bri. I know we haven’t discussed it, but I’ve gotten used to having you around.”

“Likewise,” Brian answers. His face softens all at once, his eyes warm. “I’d—you’ll always have a place with me. If you need somewhere to stay while you figure it out, I’d be more than happy to provide. I owe you that much, not to mention how happy it would make me to have you there. You know that.”

“Sap,” Freddie tuts, and Brian grins at him.

John’s hand is still warm and heavy against the small of his back, his other hand playing absently with Roger’s hair. It’s lovely, having all three of them this close. He wants it to be like this always.

He owes them answers first, though. If they’re planning on making this permanent, he at least owes them that.

“Hey guys?” he says softly.

John’s eyes are on him all at once. “What is it?”

He licks his lips. “If this is going to happen,” he says slowly, “there are some things I want you to know about me.”

They end up on the bed after all.

Roger sits with his back to the headboard, Brian and Freddie with their backs to the wall, John sitting criss-cross in front of them. The drizzle has turned into full on rain, but that’s alright; it makes the room feel safer, somehow. He can only be grateful.

He isn’t sure where to start, so he starts at the beginning: how anger had always run rampant in the Taylor family, from son to father to son; how his dad had taken it out on him. He tells them about the fight, about him running from the house with bruised ribs and a determination to get away, at least for a little while; tells them about driving to Luke’s to say goodbye to his friends, and about them insisting on coming with him. He tells them about rounding the corner, driving down the hill and then back up, rounding the second turn and then headlights coming out of nowhere, and when he looks up Brian is crying.

He wipes at his cheeks with his sleeve when he sees Roger looking. “And they all…”

Roger nods numbly. “Jay was next to me,” he says, fighting to keep his voice level. “She and Danny were gone instantly. Luke and Sarah…” he starts, thinking of pained sobs coming from the back of the car, then trails off just as fast. “They made it to the hospital, but there was nothing anyone could do.”

“Roger,” John starts, his voice hushed.

Roger shakes his head once, a tiny motion. He knows if he stops now he’ll never finish, so he plows onward. “I got insurance. Their families didn’t like that. They didn’t think I should profit off of…I mean, I can’t blame them. The other driver ran. Nobody’s been able to find him. They needed someone to blame—someone who was there—and I was the only one left.”

“They never found the other driver, did they?” Freddie asks softly. “It was in the paper. They’re still looking.”

He shakes his head. “They need a witness. I’d recognize him if I saw him. I know I would. The families don’t want my help, though. They’d rather I not be around at all. The only thing they wanted was never to hear from me again.”

“So you ran,” John murmurs.

“So I ran.” He scrubs at his eyes. “To escape it all, or to punish myself. I’m not sure why I did it.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Roger,” Freddie sighs, his face pinched. “You know that. You have to know. Everything you just said…none of that is your fault.”

The voice of doubt still whispers at the back of his head. If he’d had better control of his feelings; if he’d been more focused; if he’d chosen not to go out that night; if he’d refused to let the four of them come with him; _if, if, if._

He shakes his head. “I know that now,” he says softly, and he wills it to be true. “Maybe I could have prevented it, but the accident wasn’t my fault. We were hit. That’s not on me.”

John leans forward to take his hand, looking at him intently. “What happened was horrible,” he says quietly. “I can’t imagine how awful it was, but that doesn’t mean you need to be punished just for surviving. You deserve happiness. You can’t deny yourself that just because of something that happened _to_ you.”

Roger looks at him, taking in the earnestness written across his face. He can’t detect a lie.

“Are you going to let yourself have it?” Freddie says, his voice just barely above a whisper.

Roger is nodding before he even fully hears the question. He doesn’t need to, not really. He already knows. He wants again; he wants everything. For the first time in months he’s allowing himself to.

Brian is moving into his space even as he does, and within an instant his face is buried in Roger’s neck. He takes a shuddering breath, his chest heaving against Roger’s own. John glues himself to Roger’s side, and then Freddie is crawling forward to wedge himself between them, his cheek pressed to Roger’s own.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Brian whispers.

He lets his eyes drift shut as he takes in their warmth. He allows himself to soak in the comfort of their embraces, and he drifts.

The next few days feel right.

Sleeping curled up with the three of them is a dream. It has its challenges, as all things do; Freddie talks in his sleep sometimes, and between John and Brian Roger is constantly buried beneath a tangle of warm limbs and errant curls. Nonetheless he couldn’t be happier.

He still has nightmares. He dreams of dark water and cracked ribs; of his father shouting and of the road stretching onward before him. He has a feeling the dreams won’t leave him for a while, or maybe ever; but at least now they have sweet endings. At least now he’s drawn back into waking with sweet touches and murmurs rather than his own racing heartbeat.

He loses himself in his companions, and somewhere in the middle he finds absolution. It’s not because of them, despite the role they so obviously play in it—and he’s prideful enough to know that he never would have moved on had he not spoken about it, but at the same time that his resolve to move forward is entirely his own. He’s growing and changing; it’s not their touch that has something familiar and long-since suppressed rising within him, but rather his willingness to rise to it; to yearn.

His memory grows cluttered: fights that linger in the corners of his mind, the haze of grief over the last few months and an age-old fear and hunger; John arching over him in the moonlight, the heat of Freddie’s mouth against his throat, the sounds Brian lets out when he forgets to hold back.

His life feels fuller. He feels richer. He blinks, and the summer is almost over.

“Alright?” Brian asks him softly as he folds a pair of Roger’s jeans and tucks them into one of the suitcases that’s open on the bed. Roger can only nod silently, leaning over to kiss the corner of his mouth and watching it quirk upward as he pulls away.

On Friday he gets a call from Walt’s son, who offers to take care of the herd and the dogs for the next two days and tells Roger to leave the key under the doormat. He hangs up the phone and stares at it for a long moment, and then he goes back to packing.

His clothes take up most of Brian’s car.

The four of them take to the road at the same time, Freddie adjusting his sunglasses and throwing a scarf over his shoulder in the shotgun seat of John’s battered mini cooper. John, for his part, steps straight into Roger’s space, pins him against the side of Brian’s van and kisses him so hard that Roger goes week at the knees.

“See you in London,” he breathes, his eyes bright, but it still comes out like a question.

Roger ducks forward to peck him on the lips once more. “See you in London,” he echoes, and John grins.

“Deaky!” Freddie calls. “You randy git! Get in the car!”

“Yeah, yeah,” John laughs. He jogs to the car and ducks into his seat, slamming the door behind himself.

Roger watches as the two of them laugh at something. The car splutters to life, John revving the engine loudly a few times. Roger looks away, his eyes falling on Brian; Brian whose arms are folded against the roof of the car, his lips quirked into a playful smile.

“Ready?” he asks.

Roger nods and climbs into the car. He lets out a breath after he closes the door, his fingers coming to rest on the dash as Brian sits down and buckles his seatbelt.

He closes his eyes as the keys jingle, but the rev of the engine never comes. Confused, he looks at Brian only to find that he’s already watching Roger right back.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“You don’t need to baby me, Bri,” Roger says impatiently.

“I’m not,” Brian replies, his tone carefully neutral. He hesitates. “You gonna be alright?”

Is he? He doesn’t know. He used to love driving. These days he avoids cars like the plague.

He’s been avoiding a lot of things he used to love.

“Only one way to find out,” he says. “Come on, lets move. I want to get to London before all the good pubs are closed.”

Brian fiddles with the keys. “’But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies,’” Brian quotes softly, a smile in his voice.

“Brian, drive the damned car,” Roger laughs.

Brian grins and starts the engine. It rumbles to life, warm and familiar.

Roger turns to watch the farmhouse slide away as they follow Freddie and John down the drive. The road is rough beneath them, but it smooths out as soon as they hit the main road. Roger lets out a breath as they pick up speed, leaving his home for the last few months in the distance.

Without looking he reaches for Brian’s hand where it’s clutching the gear shift. Brian doesn’t say anything when he feels Roger’s fingers against his own, but he twists his wrist ever-so-slightly to squeeze Roger’s pinky between his own forefinger and thumb.

Roger just smiles out the window and squeezes back.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know shit about sheep farming but I saw Babe once so
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think. Until next time <333


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